


splitting colors

by orphan_account



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 17:45:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6480403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas feels the air disappear from his lungs, and he clenches the gun in his right hand even tighter, trying to keep himself from breaking down completely. He wishes, with a ferocity that surprises even himself, that he and Newt had met in another place, in another time, where they could have been brought together by lightness and laughter rather than the mutual need to survive. In a world where Thomas had the luxury of time, time to properly sort out his feelings, time for Newt to love him back. </p><p>More than anything, he wishes he had the words to explain just <i>why</i> he can’t do what Newt wants. But he doesn’t. </p><p>So Thomas kisses him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	splitting colors

When Thomas first wakes up and finds himself in the Glade, he remembers nothing, not even his name. In the middle of the inevitable panic attack this causes, as he’s fighting his way through the group of strange boys that converge on him, Thomas registers something drifting around in the back of his mind that he _does_ remember. It’s the only indication that he had ever been part of a place beyond the stone walls that enclose him, so he holds onto it, slowly letting the information piece itself together. 

Almost innately, like something being pulled from the deepest part of his subconscious, he knows that what he’s seeing of the world around him, his surroundings painted in shades of black and white, isn’t supposed to be this way. He knows about these things called Colors, which supposedly cured someone of their monochromatic eyesight. The catch is, Colors will only appear one by one, finally settling in all at once the moment a person realizes their love for someone. 

Frankly, Thomas would have preferred knowing his name instead. 

It’s a more than a little disconcerting to discover that he’s essentially trapped wherever the hell he is with absolutely no memory of how he got there, and the only thing he can remember about his past life is that he’s meant to be looking for a soulmate. The sheer uselessness of this bit of knowledge is what finally calms him down enough, and after casting it aside, he straightens up and allows himself to be brought into this unfamiliar new world.

—

Talking to the other boys that inhabit the Glade, Thomas comes to find out that Colors are all anyone recalls when they first come up. Like him, once they realized where they were and how messed up their situation really was, everything about love and soulmates were shoved aside in favor of figuring out how to get through each day alive. 

Thomas settles in as easily as one would expect someone in his situation to. He learns about the Grievers (and even the thought of them sends a shudder running through him), he watches the other boys perform the roles assigned to them, and he _tries_ as much as possible to stick to the rules and the routines, biting down on his tongue every time the urge to question their standard way of life comes up. 

Most of all, he gets to know everyone else. There’s Alby, who possesses all the qualities inherent in a good leader; patient and understanding, but with an underlying firmness to his tone that commands respect. There’s Minho, veteran Runner and all-around Cool Guy, capable of taking everything that hits him in stride. There’s Gally and the hostility that practically radiates off of him (Thomas works to avoid him as much as possible), and there’s Chuck, who despite their shared circumstances, always manages to cheer Thomas up. 

Then there’s Newt. 

From the first moment Newt had introduced himself to Thomas with nothing more than a smirk and a quick nod in his direction, Thomas had found himself inexplicably drawn to the mysterious second-in-command. Newt had immediately taken Thomas under his wing, ignoring the whispers and the curious glances the other boys had thrown their way, and showed him around, putting up with the never-ending stream of questions Thomas kept heaping on him. 

One day, as he’s helping Newt clear branches off a patch of grass on the fringes of the Glade, Thomas blurts out, “Have you ever seen one?” 

From where he’s crouched down on the ground, Newt looks up at him, eyebrow raised in question. “Seen what?” 

Thomas kicks a few leaves to one side before replying. “A Color.” 

Newt straightens up and leans against the trunk of the nearest tree. “Bit personal, seeing as we’ve only just met,” he says, crossing his arms. 

Thomas immediately flushes and turns away, sputtering out apologies. Beside him, Newt’s mouth curls into a smirk. “Slim yourself, shank,” he replies, amusement lacing his tone. “I was only messing with you, Tommy. As it happens, I _have_ seen one.” 

This catches Thomas by complete surprise. Based on what he’s learned from his conversations with everyone else, none of the other boys had ever seen a Color in all the time they’ve been in the Glade. He opens his mouth to comment, but then swiftly shuts it again when he realizes that if Newt’s seen one, it means that his soulmate is somewhere within the four walls that serve as their prison and home. 

“Yeah?” Thomas says instead, trying to sound as casual as possible. 

The look Newt gives him in response tells him he most likely failed at acting like he isn’t burning with curiosity. “Quite recently, in fact.” 

Thomas doesn’t think he has the energy to try and untangle the implications of that statement, so instead he asks, “Why do you think Colors are the only thing anyone remembers?” 

Newt lets out an impatient huff. “Who bloody knows?” The undercurrent of annoyance in his tone suggests he has the habit of asking himself the same thing. “You’d think whoever put us in here would have more important things to leave in our heads.” 

“They should just tape a note to the Box,” Thomas suggests. “‘You will see the world in black and white until you fall in love. You are also trapped in here until further notice.’ Very straight to the point.” 

“A _note _?” Newt scoffs derisively. “And here I was thinking you actually had some sense of romance in you.”__

__“My apologies,” Thomas intones. “It must have gotten wiped out along with the rest of my memories.”_ _

Newt shrugs, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I suppose it _could_ also be some kind of attempt to humanize us,” he says dryly, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Make us remember there’s supposed to be more to life than trying to get out of this bloody place.”

__“Because the idea of finding my soulmate is enough to make me forget that we’re basically stuck in a cement box with flesh-eating monsters on the other side of it,” Thomas deadpans in reply._ _

__“Hasn’t anyone ever told you true love conquers all?” Newt drawls, voice equally as sarcastic._ _

__Thomas rolls his eyes at his friend. “Well, seeing as I woke up in here with no memory of anything that’s happened before, I’m gonna go with no.”_ _

__“Consider this your first life lesson, then,” Newt says, mouth twitching with the effort of keeping a straight face._ _

__“I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Thomas grins at him. “Should I file this under Wise Words from the Brit, then?”_ _

__“Relationship advice is just one of the many services I offer,” Newt shoots back, mock-seriously. “I also teach a crash course on how to look sexy while limping.”_ _

____

“Wow.” Thomas’ smile is so wide, he’s sure that everyone on the other side of the Glade can see it, too. “I had no idea you were such a _giver_.”

Newt finally succumbs to the laughter, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Thomas finds himself entranced by the way it transforms Newt’s face, his usually serious expression being replaced with something almost warmer. “I like you, Greenie,” he says, looking Thomas squarely in the eye. 

The quiet of their surroundings is suddenly interrupted by the sound of a sharp crack, and like a bolt of lightning to the head, Thomas watches as the grass underneath his feet and the leaves that hang on the trees that encircle them flash brightly, changing from their usual dark gray into something he’s never seen before.

 _Green._ The word comes to him almost immediately, and although he’s never heard it before, there’s something recognizable about it all the same. It’s an almost intrinsic knowledge, like a forgotten memory being yanked from the recesses of his mind and brought to light. Then, as quickly as it had come, the strange pigment disappears and everything is once again plunged into a sea of black and white.

Thomas blinks, rubs his eyes slowly, and when he lowers his hands and finds that nothing around him has changed, he starts to wonder if maybe he had simply imagined it. Beside him, Newt is talking, pointing to something in the distance and giving no indication that anything out of the ordinary has just occurred. 

Later on, when Frypan calls the two of them over for dinner, Thomas makes his way to where everyone else is waiting and vows to reconcile the whole thing to memory.

—

Everything is changing, and not for the better. The somewhat stable way of life within the Glade has ceased; things start to get stranger and stranger, tensions mount until they reach an all-time high. Thomas watches the way Newt tries to take control of their differing situation, but even Thomas can tell he’s starting to crack underneath the weight of all the pressure. 

When Newt stands in front of the closing Doors, helplessly watching as Minho and Alby struggle to make it, his fists clenching as he tells Thomas that their friends are basically doomed to die, Thomas suddenly finds himself desperate to do _anything_. Hearing the edge of despair in Newt’s usually controlled voice, something inside Thomas snaps, and he breaks the most important rule that had been enforced upon him. 

He enters the Maze. 

“Don’t you do it, Tommy! Don’t you bloody do it!” 

Between the metallic screeching of the Doors sliding home, the confused yells of the other boys, and the noise of his pounding heartbeat in his ears, Thomas manages to register Newt’s shout above all. There’s something different about the way Newt’s calling for him, something more pained and despairing, and it makes Thomas’ chest clench in a way that has nothing to do with the fear of running headfirst into the most dangerous place he knows. 

He looks back once before the Doors finally close, and the last thing he sees is Newt’s face, twisted with tension and terror and something else entirely. Before he can so much as blink, there’s a bang like the crack of a whip, a flash of light, and the night sky behind where Newt is standing is suddenly enveloped in a subtler, different kind of darkness. _Purple._

Then the ominous sound of the Doors slamming shut echo around the walls of the Maze, Minho calls for him, and Thomas shakes off all other thoughts to focus on getting through rest of the night.

—

They’re safe, but at the same time, they aren’t. They’re out of the Maze, but they’re also lost, and too many people are gone ( _God_ , he can’t even think about Chuck without wanting to fall apart), and they’re trying in vain to fight against an enemy Thomas hasn’t even begun to understand. Everyone looks at him like he’s got all the answers, but in total honesty, he doesn’t. He has no idea what to do or where to go, and when Frypan finally calls him out on it, he can’t help but feel like he’s colossally let everyone down. 

Thomas takes refuge in a secluded corner a few meters away, still near enough to where everyone else is sitting that he can feel the heat from the bonfire they’d prepared spreading across his body. Leaning back against a fallen log, he closes his eyes and wills all the noise in his head to just stop for a little while. There’s a sudden rustle of movement next to him, and when he opens his eyes, he finds Newt sitting next to him, arms crossed over his legs. 

“Listen, Frypan was just letting off steam,” Newt says when Thomas doesn’t acknowledge his presence. 

“He’s right, though,” Thomas replies dully, eyes trained on the darkness of the night. “I’m the reason we’re stuck out here.” He realizes that he can’t look Newt in the eye as he says this. The truth is, he can probably handle seeing the blatant disappointment in anyone’s expression, anyone except Newt. 

“No.” Newt’s protest is quiet yet forceful, and Thomas can practically feel the indignation coming off him in waves. “You’re the reason we’re _free_.” Thomas faces him then, sees the urgency in Newt’s eyes, listens as Newt goes on, waving away Thomas’ halfhearted objections and quashing his insecurities, his voice never rising above a whisper, but the determination in his tone still obvious all the same. 

“So _we_ can’t give up,” Newt finishes. “ _You_ can’t give up.” Then, in a voice so soft Thomas wouldn’t have heard it had Newt not been sitting so close, Newt adds, “I won’t let you.” 

_Crack._ The sound, the blaze of light, and suddenly, Newt’s hair is illuminated not only from the light of the fire behind him, but by its own natural state, a brilliant, radiant hue that sets his whole being aglow. _Yellow._

With Newt’s hair being a slightly lighter shade of gray compared to everyone else’s, Thomas had always idly wondered what he really looked like away from the blanket of the same two tones that covered everything in his sight. Thomas finds that it suits him, and when everything reverts to its original state, he’s almost more sorry than confused. 

Thomas lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Do you really think we’ll make it out of this mess alive?” 

Newt laughs, and it’s only slightly hollow. “Two years ago, I would have said there was no bloody chance in hell.” Then he glances at Thomas, one corner of his mouth curving just barely upwards. “But that was before your shuck face showed up.” 

Newt leaves him then, walking back towards where the others are waiting, and Thomas is back to contemplating his life alone. But this time, it has nothing to do with survival and everything to do with the boy who’d just vacated the seat next to him.

—

“The following people are not immune. Newt…” 

When Thomas first hears the declaration, the ringing in his ears and the thudding of his own heart are almost loud enough to drown out the sound of everything else. Newt isn’t immune. They’ve all been exposed to some kind of deadly infection, and Newt _can’t_ fight it. Dull horror floods Thomas’ insides at the idea of losing him. Somehow, despite the number of people who have died along the way, none of their deaths seem as bad in comparison to the thought of going on without Newt. 

Newt’s voice effectively cuts into the haze of pain and confusion that surrounds him. “Tommy, slim yourself.” 

When Thomas looks up at Newt, there’s a forced smile on his face that’s so far away from his usual casual smirk, Thomas can barely stand to look at him. “Slim myself? How can you _say_ that?” he demands, then spins around to stare accusingly at Rat Man. “There has to be _something_ you can do. You can’t just let him—I won’t—” 

“Tommy!” Newt’s hand shoots out and grabs hold of Thomas’ wrist. Thomas looks down at where Newt’s skin meets his, the warmth from Newt’s hand a stark contrast to the bleakness of the atmosphere in the room. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” Thomas meets Newt’s eyes, silently searching for any sign that Newt’s affected by this as much as he is, but he finds none. 

The sharp crack, the flash, and Newt’s shirt glows like a beacon of light in the dimness of the lab. _Blue._ The sudden tightening of Newt’s grip jolts Thomas out of his daze, and when he looks to his right, he notices Newt sporting a similar vacant expression, eyes glazed over as he stares at something behind Thomas’ right ear. 

Before Thomas can say anything, Rat Man starts talking again and the rest of their group turns to listen. Newt’s hand still locked to his wrist, Thomas reluctantly does the same.

—

“Shut up! Just shut up! I trusted you! Now do it!” 

Newt’s shouts ring loud and clear in his ear. Looking up at him from where he’s pinned against the ground, Thomas can see the sheer madness in his eyes, the rage that’s contorting Newt’s features beyond comprehension. 

“I _can’t_.” Thomas hates how much of a plea his words come out as, but he doesn’t care. He’s aware of what he was expected to do by coming here, but when faced with the chance, he knows, as much as he’s ever known anything, that he can’t do this. 

But Newt’s still yelling, still begging, the desperation in his voice growing by the second, and Thomas wants so badly to shut his eyes and pretend he’s anywhere but here. He doesn’t think Newt understands just how _impossible_ what he’s asking Thomas to do is. It’ll be so much more than killing one of the best friends he’s ever had. Sometimes he thinks Newt is— That he could possibly be— 

“KILL ME!” And then Newt’s eyes clear, as if he’s gained one last trembling gasp of sanity, and his voice softens. “Please, Tommy. Please.”

Before he fully registers what he’s doing, Thomas shoves Newt to one side and gets to his feet, Newt standing up at the same time so that they’re facing each other, eyes locked. Newt’s gaze is beseeching, the remains of his former personality still somewhat intact, and he takes a step towards Thomas. “Tommy…” he says again. “Tommy, _please_.” 

Thomas feels the air disappear from his lungs, and he clenches the gun in his right hand even tighter, trying to keep himself from breaking down completely. He wishes, with a ferocity that surprises even himself, that he and Newt had met in another place, in another time, where they could have been brought together by lightness and laughter rather than the mutual need to survive. In a world where Thomas had the luxury of time, time to properly sort out his feelings, time for Newt to love him back. 

More than anything, he wishes he had the words to explain just _why_ he can’t do what Newt wants. But he doesn’t. 

So Thomas kisses him. 

It’s an angry, desperate kiss that’s filled with everything Thomas didn’t even know he had in him. He’s fisting one hand into the fabric of Newt’s shirt, holding the gun between them with the other. When their lips first met, Newt had made a surprised noise, but now he kisses back just as frantically, his hand coming up to thread his fingers in Thomas’ hair, the other grabbing Thomas’ hand in his, turning it carefully so that the gun barrel is pressed against his stomach. 

They break apart slowly, foreheads still pressed together and ragged breaths mixing in with the cool air. Thomas briefly closes his eyes and imagines, just for a minute, that this kiss had occurred under different circumstances, in a different world where he’d open his eyes and see Newt smirking back at him, already tugging him closer for another round. 

Newt’s harsh whisper pulls him back into reality. “Do it.” 

Thomas swallows down the lump that has formed in his throat. “Newt, I—” 

“I don’t want to hear you say it,” Newt cuts in, and Thomas complies even if every cell in his body is aching for him to scream it at the top of his lungs. After all, who is he to deny Newt his dying (oh, God, _dying_ ) wish? “I don’t need to know what I’m leaving behind,” he adds, and Thomas pretends he doesn’t notice the way Newt’s voice breaks at the end. 

_I love you._ With his heart falling into a black abyss, Thomas pulls the trigger. 

Newt drops to the ground with an audible _thud_ , and Thomas is left staring in a blank sort of horror at the blood seeping out of his lifeless body. The gun slides out of his hand and clatters on the asphalt, the metal echoing ominously on the concrete sidewalk, and the sound is loud enough that it almost drowns out the sharp crack that permeates through the air. Thomas has seen blood before, but never anything this _bright_. The blood coming out of Newt is a dark, dangerous-looking substance, so vivid in its contrast to Thomas’ two-toned world that it’s almost dizzying. 

_Red._

—

Like a sudden rush of blood to the head, all the Colors come to him at once. The world, which had once been hidden in the shadows of the same two shades, is suddenly cast into sharp relief, filled with brightness and life, with a vivacity Thomas had no idea could exist in the life he had been forced to lead. 

They lose Teresa in the final battle, a battle Thomas had fought in a state so numb to his surroundings, it was a miracle that he had even managed to come out of it alive. But emerging into their new environment, Thomas thinks it’s close enough to make up for everything that’s happened to them. It’s a beautiful place, made even more beautiful by the fact that he can finally see everything in full. Every subtle tint and every nuanced change in hue, every dark spot and every burst of light. 

It’s almost enough to make him forget the price he had to pay for this gift. (His lingering thoughts of the dead have no room in a land so _alive_ , where the joy and contentment of the survivors are tangible in the air.) 

Sitting on a hill and watching the orange and yellow streaks of the setting sun, Thomas thinks that maybe, somewhere out there, he and Newt might have gotten their happy ending. But right now, all Thomas can do is bask in the beauty of the field around him, and hope that wherever he is, Newt can see the Colors, too.


End file.
